


Behind Closed Doors

by lakesideminuet



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Content, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23729359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lakesideminuet/pseuds/lakesideminuet
Summary: It was not proper, the throes of passion the two of you shared after hours of research and discussion. But somehow, time and time again, you found yourself here.
Relationships: 14th Member of the Convocation of Fourteen/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 138





	Behind Closed Doors

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ... nervous to post this. Because it's my first thing I'll be posting since completion of my fic with Eliniel... Also my first thing posting alone ever and anxiety is the worst. Anyways... I hope you enjoy! May end up become a series but for now is a one-shot!

His hands are more confident than you expected. Such was your first observation when you had first experienced the feel of his skin on your own. Though you're not entirely sure why you expected anything else.

Emet-Selch. The Architect. Quiet though he may be, his brilliance was difficult to match. And with such intelligence, with such intense focus that such a position demands... Why had you assumed he would be anything less than confident?

As he grips the cloth of your robes, his body pressing yours against the wall, you can feel the warmth that radiates from him in waves. Heat, too hot, that reveals a fraction of the power the man before you is capable of wielding.

And yet, as his fingers tighten on the gray cloth of your attire, his breath coming in unsteady pants as his lips hover above yours, red and swollen from the fiery passion-fueled dance they had just shared with your own, one thing is clear to you.

You are the one wielding the power in this interaction. You, who had incited such a flame within the normally detached, entirely too serious man seated amongst the prestigious Fourteen.

You can feel the turmoil rage within him as he decides his next move, his jaw ticking as he clenches it. A single bead of sweat slides beneath the mask from his brow. Though you cannot see his eyes, the weight of his gaze is present just the same.

He is staring at you, staring through your own mask as it sits slightly askew upon your face. So close to revealing much too much, though perhaps not enough.

It was not proper, the throes of passion the two of you shared after hours of research and discussion. But somehow, time and time again, you found yourself here.

Against the wall or the table or the floor, a whimper caught in your throat as you waited for him to make the next move. To give in to the pull he felt, the one neither of you could seem to resist.

You vaguely recall how this _arrangement_ started. Months upon months (or was it perhaps years now?) ago, how you had arrived in the Bureau of the Architect, nervous and heart aflutter because you had heard of the intensity of the newly appointed Emet-Selch.

He had needed another well-versed in aetherology, another who had studied it at length to fully understand the findings he observed with each new Creation. And when your professor was approached for the most promising among you and your peers, you were among the handful that had been selected for the internship.

But now, only you remained. The rest either called away to other projects or dismissed outright.

There were whispers, of course, that Emet-Selch had been _too hard_ on the students, that they were young and still learning. Whispers that were quickly snuffed out when your peers revealed that they had not been dismissed so much as given the option to leave.

One that they had taken because the hours were long, and the task was difficult, and they had interests and passions that lay elsewhere. The most eminent Emet-Selch had provided gleaming recommendation letters for each and every one of them because he understood. Such work was not for everyone, and he would be the last person to force someone to stay.

And when only you remained for the hours upon hours in solitude with the man, working in silence as you both scoured tome after tome from the shelves of the research wing in the Bureau of the Architect, it was difficult not to fill the silent breaks with admittedly personal questions.

What he did in his free time; if the position of Emet-Selch was one that he had always wanted. Why you have decided on this field of study. What your dreams were, how you strived for a seat of your own. What he envisioned for the future of your home, for the star.

“Why not work in Lahabrea’s lab?” He had asked you this once, and you found you could not give him an answer. Because truthfully, once your schooling had completed, that was the original plan. And yet, spending time with _this_ man, learning his craft from him and learning his mind, had made you realize that you much preferred it here.

With him. Because the warmth you felt with him was unlike one you had ever felt before. Because you were drawn to him in ways you could not explain.

You had not realized you spoke the words aloud until he breathed a laugh, one that grew into a hearty chuckle when redness had spread across your cheeks and neck and undoubtedly to your ears. 

Laughter that had not helped you feel any less embarrassed by your admission. But then he confessed that he, too, felt warmth when he spent time with you. Felt the pull between your souls that he could not deny. You could still feel his hand on your chin to tilt your face up towards his, the softest of smiles on his lips before he pressed them to yours.

You are abruptly brought back to the present when he suddenly moves to straighten your mask. 

“What I would give to know what you think of when your mind wanders as it does,” he muses, barely above a whisper. He has calmed considerably from before you lost yourself in the recesses of your memories.

You clear your throat. “I was… remembering when this first started,” you admit and he nods his head in understanding. 

“Ah, I see. And given the chance, would you change things?” he asks you, his tone serious as his hand leaves your face, placed to the side of your head as he leans over you, looking down at you. “I would hope, if this is not to your liking, that you would tell me the truth of it. Regardless of my position on the Convocation.”

You immediately shake your head, quickly dispelling the tension that had built in his shoulders, the confidence he had displayed faltering at the prospect that you would feel pressured to allow him to touch you in such ways, that this was not what you _wanted_ , though the ache between your legs refuted such a claim.

He sighs with relief, and he begins to take a step back, but the small cry of protest that escapes your lips gives him pause. 

“I did not ask for you to stop,” you say, a slight tremble in your voice. He tilts his head slightly, peering down at you with a slowly spreading smirk that makes you roll your eyes despite the flush that is creeping across your face.

“No, you did not,” he confirms. “But you _did_ lose yourself in your thoughts, and as such, I assumed you were not interested tonight.”

“I am,” you squeak, immediately. You clear your throat once more, try to stand a little taller, seem a little less desperate. “Interested, that is.” 

The Architect hums as his smirk widens. 

“No regrets then, I take it,” he practically purrs as he steps toward you once more, closing the distance between your bodies. You shake your head with an unsteady exhale. “Good. I have none either.”

Not a moment later, his lips are on yours, firm and insistent. You suck in a sharp breath, taking in the scent of old scrolls and ink that lingers on his robes, the faintest hint of burning wood from the fireplace he preferred to sit beside as he read. 

Without further pretense, he brushes his tongue against your lips and you greedily accept it, knowing full well that it tastes of sugar and cinnamon-spiced tea, his penchant for consuming sweets when idly perusing the contents of a document the likely culprit.

He chuckles against your lips at your enthusiasm, amusement clear in the sound as you finally lift your hands from where they had been placed firmly against the wall. You slide them up the chest of his robes, gripping his hood before slowly inching it downward. 

And when his long white hair finally cascades down, your fingers immediately are buried deep within its silken strands. You tug on it firmly, a shudder that you fully expected coursing through his body with the motion. 

You had learned fairly quickly what he was fond of, just as he had made equally fast observations on what you seemed to enjoy most. As he tears his lips from yours, he trails wet and fevered kisses along your jawline, his hands sliding down the wall before moving to lift you.

His nose nudges the hood of your robe as he continues toward your earlobe, nipping at it as you wrap your legs around him. He steps back from the wall and turns the two of you, your head falling back and to the side as he continues his path down along the length of your neck, the hood falling back as he gingerly sets you upon the table. 

Tomes, scrolls, parchment, and your own well of ink are littered across its surface, their presence tearing your attention away from the Architect for only a moment before he clicks his tongue and pushes the tomes and scrolls to your left off the table, sending them scattering on the ground.

“Wait,” you protest softly as he moves to push the rest of the parchment from his way and he exhales sharply before pulling back from you as he stays his hand. You release your grip on his hair as you turn to grab your meticulously taken research notes, stacking them neatly before corking the well of ink and placing them in the far corner away from you.

When you look back at Emet-Selch, he is watching you with a clear mixture of frustration and amusement in his expression despite his shrouded eyes, and you shrug a shoulder before raising your hands to grab him by the collar of his robes. A slight tug is all it takes before he leans over you once more, his lips seeking yours as you lean back. 

“You perplex me,” he states between impassioned kisses as his hands wander the length of your sides, slowly, languidly tugging the fabric of your robes up your body as you frantically begin grabbing his as well, your legs wrapped around his waist when you finally pull them up high enough.

He leans back to stand upright as one of his hands sneaks beneath your robe that is now bundled around your waist, his fingers sliding along the skin of your abdomen before pressing down to lay you down flat against the table. 

“So impatient,” he muses as you stare up at him, the lighting accentuating his chiseled jaw, the perfect cupid’s bow of his lips. “And yet, you asked patience of me to allow you to move the parchment and ink.”

Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath. “I would have had to clean it up afterward,” you pant, tightening your legs around his waist, trying to coax him to move faster, to give you exactly what you need. 

The robes he wears hangs in just the right way to obscure your view, though you are sure he must be just as ready for you. So you try to adjust yourself, trying desperately to scoot yourself down the table to be closer to him. 

He huffs a laugh, idly brushing his thumb across your nipple in response to your wriggling, eliciting a gasp from you, the jolt his touch brings stopping you in your tracks. “Yes, but now… you’ll have to wait.”

His other hand grips your hip, holding you steady to thwart you and you cannot stop the whine that slips from your lips as he pinches the peak of your breast before beginning to massage the supple flesh, your back arching into his touch. Since he insists on holding you, on stopping you from seeking him out, you opt instead to tighten your knees on his hips, slowly inching your legs up to pull the robes up along with them.

He chuckles when he realizes your intention, his hand trailing down from your breast to slip between your legs. Immediately, you throw your head back and it lands on the table with a soft thud, your task forgotten as his fingers begin to slide through your folds. 

“My, my…” he teases, his voice dropping nearly an octave with the desire that courses through him at what he finds. “What do we have here?”

Your eyes roll back as his fingers slide from your opening to the bundle of nerves at your apex, lingering for only a moment before repeating the motion, spreading the slick wetness that had gathered there as the ache built from your mounting arousal. 

“And you thought I didn’t want-” You attempt to speak, to tease him for his moment of uncertainty, but your words devolve into a moan as he swirls his fingers in a tight circle against the nerve, cutting you off as he shushes you.

“No need to be smug,” he coos, tightening his grip on your hip as you resist his force, trying with all your strength to slide closer to him, to be able to feel his hardness against you.

“Emet-Selch,” you plead, his fingers continuing their ministrations, their teasing of your sensitive flesh.

He breathes a laugh, and it’s clear from the smug amusement in the sound that he is thoroughly enjoying himself. He hums his approval, watching your composure wane by the feeling of his hands alone, his fingers swirling with a pressure that is both too much and not enough. “Yes?”

“Please.” It’s all you can say as he _finally_ slides a single digit inside you, his thumb brushing small circles against your nerve. “I just want-”

Again, your words fall short, another finger slipping into you and curling upward, brushing against the singular spot that nearly makes you jump as a shiver tears through your body from the sensation.

“What do you want?” he breathes, his fingers slowly moving within you, alternating between curling them and rubbing your clitoris in a small, languid circle.

“ _Gods_ ,” you gasp, wanton in your desperation as you try to bring yourself up to a seated position, your hands reaching for his robes to steady yourself.

You roughly tug on the fabric, watching his lips curl upward as he resists you. His fingers continue to work you into incoherence, the grin upon his lips slowly growing. Your breath is caught in your throat before a shuddering moan escapes, and it’s only then that he decides to press just the slightest bit harder on your nerve. 

He knows _exactly_ what it is you want, and yet he insists on denying you, on tormenting you. Insufferable man.

“We’re quite a ways from a temple, I’m afraid,” he teases, increasing the pace of his fingers as he feels you begin to tighten, your quivering giving your closeness away. Again you pull, wanting to feel his mouth on yours if only to silence the arrogance that drips from his every word. You feel the fire building in your abdomen, feel as the waves of pleasure surge within you, the tension coiling more and more with each pass. 

As he feels you approaching your climax, hears it in the way your moans catch in your throat, the way you whimper and keen, he finally leans in, releasing his hold on your hip to allow you to shift. 

He watches you as you try to sit up once more, his breathing uneven as his lips part. His gaze is heavy on you even through the material of his mask, and you can feel the intensity of it as you begin to fall apart. The idea that he enjoys seeing you this way, that the image of you flushed and moaning merely at the touch of his fingers could bring him such enjoyment fans the flames that had been building within you.

You throw your head back, back arched as you tighten your hold on his robe, whimpering as he wraps his arm around you to support you. With his help, you sit up further, scooting closer to him, your hips bucking against his hand, his movements turned frantic as he seeks to bring you to your end. 

“That’s it,” he whispers into your ear as you wrap your arms around him, his breath hot as he pants from the arousal you have incited in him. “Come for me.”

It does not take long for you to come undone, to tremble and shake as he pushes you over the edge that he had so carefully brought you toward. Your body shakes violently as he works you through your orgasm, your cries muffled by the cloth of his robe as you bury your face into the crook of his neck.

When you come to your senses, your breathing is labored, your body covered in sweat, your robes slightly damp. He holds you in his arms, having whispered reassurances as you rode out the waves, and now that you have seemed to calm, he pulls back. His lips softly press against your forehead, his hand moving to brush the wayward strands of your hair that stick to the sweat on your brow back.

“I find myself wondering,” he murmurs, as he seems to examine you carefully, gauging your reaction to his words. “About the color.”

You tilt your head slightly in response, waiting for him to elaborate, his mask which denotes his seat upon the Fourteen still carefully placed upon his face. A corner of his lips pulls upward, the intensity of your curiosity apparently amusing. You click your tongue, which only spurs the smirk to shift into a smile.

The same smile which had made your heart skip a beat on so many occasions.

“I wonder if your eyes match your soul,” he clarifies and you can feel your cheeks heat with the blood that now pools within them. Immediately, you feel your heartbeat accelerate, the panic and anxiety setting in. The implication that you would be seen without your mask is one that is too intimate.

And suddenly, you catch yourself, realizing that he has seen quite literally every other aspect of you. Though questions still danced in your mind of the nature of this coupling, of his intentions with you. Just a game? Or were your fanciful hopes that you meant more to him truly based in reality? 

Your relationship with the man had progressed admittedly in the wrong order.

“And what of yours?” you ask then, proud that your voice did not tremble, did not give you away. 

You could almost imagine his brow raising, and the warmth collects in your cheeks anew as he brings his face close to you once more, his lips brushing against yours when he speaks.

“Do you frequently ponder the color of my eyes?” he breathes, and your own breath catches in your throat as he leans in toward you, his lips tickling the surface of your skin along your jawline before setting next to your ear. “Not _during_ , I hope, else I will certainly have to try harder.”

You visibly swallow as he slips his hands beneath the bundled robes around your waist, inching it upward as he waits to see if you would protest. Eventually, when the fabric is gathered above your breasts and he requires you to lift your arms to remove it, he pauses, the unspoken request hanging between you.

Slowly, you lift your hands as he continues to tug on your robes, to inch it upward as you move. As you consider your next move, you can feel nervousness bloom in your stomach. And when your hands land on the wooden material of your mask, he stops short, his breath catching.

Neither of you moves, neither of you breathes. He has realized your intention, and releases your robe, quickly moving his hands to your wrists. He gives you a small shake of his head, and you know from the intense crease of his brow that peeks out behind his mask that he wants you to be _sure_ , that he does not ask this of you unless you freely give it.

You exhale the breath you had been holding, and begin to remove your mask, one of final barriers between the two of you finally slipping down. 

And with it, so does the composure of the man before you, his exhale harsh and unsteady when you finally look up at him after you placed the mask to your side.

His hands cup the sides of your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones, previously inaccessible to his touch. Your eyes search that which you can see of his expression, his lips parted with wonder, the furrow in his brow gone as the skin above his mask is smooth.

“Is… Are they… what you expected?” you whisper, your hands clenched in your lap. 

He does not respond, and you slowly avert your gaze downward with the crushing realization that they were just as ordinary and plain as you had assumed they would be. Your soul, however he must perceive it with his gift, must be so much more radiant, so much more beautiful compared to the dullness of your eyes.

You nod your head with understanding, the sadness crushing you as you reach for your mask once more to place it upon your face to shield you from the disappointment that must have filled him at the sight of them.

But before you can, his hand shoots out from where it had taken purchase on your face, catching your wrist in a tight grasp that makes you gasp sharply. When you raise your gaze back to him, he immediately presses his lips to yours, the hunger and desperation within the action palpable. 

You can feel tears well in the corners of your eyes as relief fills you, and your eyes flutter shut as you return his kiss with fervor, the intensity of the air causing the flame to light anew within your abdomen. You can feel the heat radiating off of him in waves once more, his arousal igniting his aether, the sheer magnitude of it manifesting itself in an aura of warmth around his body. He tears his lips from yours, his hands roaming your body as he trails his kisses down your jawline, along your neck, tearing breathy moans from your lips.

His hands reach your thighs and he grabs each leg, pulling you to the edge of the table as he parts them, his breathing heavy, his movements not at all as measured as they had been previously. He steps between your legs, his erection teasing between your folds and you suddenly shoot your hand out, placing it upon his chest to urge him to wait.

He tenses then, his chest heaving with each breath, his hands gripping your hips tightly as your eyes roam his face, taking in the creeping frown. You clear your throat.

“May… I see you?” you ask, softly, timidly. Part of you cringes at the realization that it sounds like a plea. The thought crosses your mind that perhaps he was not ready to reveal himself to you, that it’s a very personal moment that you should not have rushed.

And now you have forced his hand.

For his part, Emet-Selch seems unaffected by your request and immediately his hands fly to his face, making quick work of the red mask that denotes his position. It clatters to the ground as he releases it.

When his eyes meet yours for the first time, you feel the wind leave you as you are struck with their beauty. Your lips part, your hand cupping the side of his face. Your thumb travels along the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion evident from nights upon nights of limited sleep.

Like molten gold, with a sparkle within them. No, more than that… you lean in, taking in every detail of the brilliance of his eyes, watching as the color seems to nearly churn with the power that hides beneath the surface. 

He breathes a laugh then, though it seems nervous, unsure. The sound of it is enough to break you from your trance and you blink, leaning back.

“Are they what you expected?” he asks, repeating your question back to you.

“No,” you breathe, your eyes still locked with his as you search them. “I- I don’t know what I expected but-”

He silences you with a single fingertip against your lips, a soft smile spreading across his face, the sight of it more stunning now that you can behold the expression in its entirety. The way his eyes light up, the way the corners wrinkle.

“You are breathtaking,” he says then, leaning in to hover his lips above yours. His eyes search yours, a hand coming up to cup the side of your face once more. You release an unsteady breath against his mouth, gripping the fabric of his robes in your hands. “There were no words that I could find to describe just how beautiful you are.”

You feel the warmth spread across your cheeks at his admission, a small sense of comfort washing over you at the realization that his silence was not a result of being _un_ impressed, but rather the opposite.

But before you could dwell on it any further, his lips were on yours, softer and more gentle than they had ever been. Where your kisses had previously been frantic and desperate, this was slow and affectionate, filled with a tenderness that you were not expecting. He shifts the two of you, wrapping his other hand around you to press against the small of your back, pulling you toward him until you are seated at the very edge of the table, with him between your still-spread legs.

You can feel his growing arousal clearly and it easily slips between your folds, rubbing against you as he presses his hips flush to yours. A whimpering sigh escapes your lips against his mouth and you find yourself moving against him, to feel the length of him rub against you in its entirety.

Despite your mounting desperation, your motions are slow, to match the pace he had set for the two of you with his lips. But as the kiss begins to grow in intensity, so too does the energy that sparked in the room. His hand grips your hip as the other makes its way to one of your breasts, his fingers pinching your nipple gently as he angles himself just slightly, but the adjustment was enough to feel his head brush against your clitoris. 

You gasp at the sensation, pulling your lips from his as you arch your back slightly into his touch, and he begins showering every ilm of your face with kisses, now uninhibited with the removal of your mask. He kisses your cheeks, your forehead above your eyes, the tip of your nose, the gesture so gentle it threatens to bring tears to your eyes as he rocks his hips. Each pass seems to increase his arousal, causing a shudder to course through you as you feel him hardening against you. 

Just as you think you’d fall apart simply grinding against him, he pauses, reaching between the two of you as he angles his hips away from you to adjust himself at your entrance. His eyes search yours with an unspoken question and you give him the slightest of nods in response, watching as his eyes light up with an emotion that you cannot entirely place. 

With a sigh, you begin to lean back, laying flat against the table once more as he hovers over you. His eyes focus intently on yours as he begins to guide himself into you. You inhale sharply, the feeling of _finally_ being stretched by him one you had been longing for. Ilm by ilm you feel him as he enters you, before he seats himself entirely inside you with a soft groan to match the whimper that slips from your lips. Your eyes flutter shut from the feeling of being filled so thoroughly, your hands coming to rest on each of his arms. 

It’s only then as you feel the fabric beneath your fingers that you realize that he still wears his robe. You slide your hands beneath it to lift it as much as you can before he shifts to tear it off the rest of the way, discarding it to the side without a second thought. His hands mimic your actions mere moments later, slipping beneath the robe that you still wear, its removal interrupted by the surprise of your decision to unmask yourself, and he lifts you slightly to assist you.

The motion causes his hips to rock just slightly against yours and the sensation causes a moan to escape you, your eyelids sliding shut once more. 

He hovers over you again, moving his hips to withdraw from you before gliding back in, your legs wrapping around his waist as soft sighs escape you with each slow and steady movement. 

“Open your eyes,” he whispers to you, and you oblige to see his face mere ilms from yours, his golden eyes smoldering with lust, the pupils dilated as they lock on yours. You whimper at the sight of them, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth as he begins to increase the speed of his thrusts. 

And when one of his hands slips between you, his thumb finding your clitoris and rubbing it gently and in time with his movements, you cannot help but cry out. Your eyes roll back and your lids threaten to close once more as you are overcome with sensation, but he clicks his tongue, slowing his movements. 

“Let me see you,” he implores and you nod with understanding, your gaze meeting his once more as moan after moan slips from your lips each time he fills you. His movements turn unsteady as you lock your eyes with his, his breathing growing heavy. 

He stands upright, his lids hooded as he gazes down at you, his thrusts growing frantic the longer you maintain eye contact. Your cries increase in volume, your hips raising up to meet his thrusts as his hand grips one tightly. 

Entranced by the golden honey of his eyes, you find yourself unable to look away, despite the building tension within you, despite the desperate sounds that leave you. Your body begins to tremble, his thumb working your clitoris as he roughly pounds his hips against yours. 

You reach your hands over your head, grasping at the edge of the table in an attempt to steady yourself as you careen toward the precipice once more. Hooking your legs behind him, you try to pull him in closer, his movements irregular, his breathing labored. You feel him pulsate slightly within you as you tighten around him, both of your orgasms so very close. 

“Come with me,” you plead as you continue to raise your hips to meet his thrusts, your knees tightening around him as you help him keep the rhythm you need. He moans loudly at your words, swearing under his breath as he falls forward to press his lips to yours. 

The kiss is sloppy, desperate, his teeth pulling at your bottom lip before he claims your mouth once more. Your breath comes in heavy pants as his hips rock against yours, your arms wrapping tightly around him. But with the change in angle you can feel him brush against the spot deep within you, sending jolts of pleasure through you with each movement. 

Your body begins to tense, the pressure building quickly now in your abdomen. Tighter and tighter the tension coils within you, warmth spreading throughout your entire body. You pull your lips from his with the cries that you cannot contain as you climb closer and closer with each thrust. 

“Let go,” he breathes, his panting coming out shakily. He's close, you know it, you can feel it from the irregularities in his movements, can tell from the sounds slipping from his lips. Each groan, each unsteady exhale threatens to be your undoing. 

But when he moans your name in your ear as he swells within you, your climax tears through you. You feel his release nearly immediately as you tighten around him, the warmth of it filling you as he continues his thrusting to bring you through to the very end of your orgasm. Your hips move wildly against his, your nails digging into his back as yours arches off the table and your eyes clamp shut. 

The pounding of your heart in your ears is nearly deafening as your orgasm rushes through you, and when it's passed, you feel as if you are floating. Your entire body tingles, you swear you see sparklers flickering behind your lids. 

The feeling of his lips on each of your eyelids brings you back to reality and you hum as you run your hands up and down the length of his back. When you finally deign to open your eyes, you are met with startling amber.

They nearly glow as joy dances in them and Emet-Selch breathes a laugh, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. You feel your cheeks grow warm as he examines your face, his fingers idly brushing through your hair. 

“What is it?” you whisper when the minutes pass and he seems content to simply look at you.

He hums as he shakes his head slightly, shrugging a shoulder, his eyes seeming to roam your every feature now that he is able to in your entirety. 

Silence descends between the two of you once more, but soon, as your body begins to calm, you feel a shiver course through you. The warmth that his aether provided dissipated when his own composure returned, and with its absence, the coolness of the room is that much more noticeable to you now, exposed as you are.

Realization dawns on the Architect's expression and he pushes back off the table, his eyes roaming the vicinity until they land on your robes. He bends to retrieve them for you as you sit up, and though you reach your hand to take it from him, he instead opts to aid you in donning your attire once more.

“Thank you,” you whisper. You avert your gaze from him once he has pulled it over your head, a timid smile on your lips as he busies himself with his own robe. 

Once you are both dressed, he reaches for your mask, its white wood in stark contrast with the red of his own that he holds in his other hand. As you place yours upon your face, you frown at the realization that it could be some time until you are permitted to see that enchanting gold hue again.

You begin to gather your materials then and stow them in your pockets, attempting to distract yourself from the disappointment that pits in your stomach at the thought. Neither of you says a word while he helps you collect your things, but the silence is not uncomfortable. 

When you make for the door, the time you should have departed the Bureau of the Architect having long since come and gone, you are stopped by his hand grabbing yours. You turn slowly and are met with his soft lips upon yours, only for a moment, a chaste goodbye before he pulls back.

“Have a good evening,” he says, nodding his head at you. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

You nod in return. “Good night, Emet-Selch,” you say as you turn once more, your hand reaching for the doorknob.

“Hades,” he says then, making you pause just as you cracked open the door. You look over your shoulder, your breath catching in your throat. “I would prefer it if you would use my true name when we are alone, given the nature of our relationship.”

Your lips part in wonder, and he lazily shrugs a shoulder at you.

“Oh,” you whisper in response, at a loss for what else to say, your mind blank as you attempt to process his words.

A corner of his lips pull upwards and he nods, gesturing toward the clock. “Best be on your way.”

“Right. I'm… late,” you murmur, turning back toward the door and pulling it open the rest of the way. “See you tomorrow.” 

You falter, taking a deep breath before stepping out and turning to face him once more, the amusement dancing in his eyes as he watches you get flustered. 

He arches a brow, smirking at your hesitance. You breathe an exasperated sigh, the expression exactly how you imagined it would be and you want nothing more than to kiss him, to wipe the arrogance off his perfectly irresistible face.

“Go on then,” he laughs as he moves his hands to shoo you when you continue to linger. You click your tongue at him and he rolls his eyes before a smile spreads across his lips, the comfortable, natural dynamic between you restored.

“Good night, Hades.”


End file.
